


The Light

by mojokid



Category: Sports Night
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 04:20:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1537313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mojokid/pseuds/mojokid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan screws up again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Light

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ in 2008; this is a slightly edited version.

Casey found him in an empty bar called The Light, a new place two blocks from Dan’s apartment. Dan was sitting alone on a couch in the corner, hunched over a dark red drink in a tall glass.

‘I assume the name of this place is meant to be ironic,’ said Casey, sitting down next to him.

Dan didn’t look at him. Turned his drink around on the low table. When he eventually spoke, he said: ‘What?’ 

‘It’s dark in here.’ 

‘Right.’

‘And it’s called The Light. So, you know. Irony.’

‘I’m not sure that really constitutes irony.’

‘I think it does.’ Casey reached and slid the drink away from Dan’s fingers, raised it to his lips and tried some. ‘This tastes like candy.’ 

‘I know,’ said Dan, taking it back. The drink had stained his lips red, and the edges of his mouth. ‘Seriously, I think irony is something a little more subtle than that.’

‘No,’ said Casey. ‘I have a keen sense of irony.’

‘It’s failing you.’

‘I’ll accept that possibility.’

Dan looked at him for the first time, and leant back into the couch, which was also dark red, and the kind that was soft and deep and swallowed people up. ‘How did you find me?’

‘I followed my instincts. I have a keen sense for these things.’

‘You getting a drink? Or do you want to deliver your lecture first?’

‘My what?’

‘It’s fine. Go ahead. You give your little lecture that I know you were writing in your head all afternoon, I’ll sit and pretend like I’m listening, we can all go home happy. Between you and me, I think you should get a drink first. Maybe get me another one while you’re up.’ He raised his glass, tilted it towards Casey. ‘This is called a Red Light.’

‘Clever.’

‘I believe they also offer the Blue Light, the Green Light, and the White Light.’

‘I see what they’ve done there.’

‘Yeah.’

‘What’s in them?’

‘Alcohol,’ said Dan. ‘Sugar. Sugar and alcohol. And colors.’

Casey got up and bought himself a White Light, which looked a lot like milk. He got Dan another Red Light, and sat back down.

‘I think this is essentially a White Russian,’ Casey said. ‘They think they can fool me.’

‘But they’re wrong?’

‘But they’re wrong.’

‘Come on then,’ said Dan. ‘Get on with it.’

‘Danny. I didn’t come here to lecture you. I honestly don’t have the energy.’

‘So why are you here?’

‘I wanted a drink.’

‘A White Light.’

‘I wanted a White Light. And I hear this is the place.’

It was the kind of place Dan liked. With strange drinks and strange music and pretentious lighting, vaguely trendy yet persistently unpopular, dark and private, couches and cushions and attractive, discreet staff. The kind of place that opened and closed within three months and made more money off Dan than anybody else. He had a knack for finding these places. Taking girls there, and then being unable to go back once the girl had dumped him. 

‘So.’ Dan traced a finger around the rim of his glass. ‘How much trouble am I in?’

‘I don’t know.’ Casey pictured Dana’s mouth set in a hard line. ‘I don’t really want to talk about it.’

Dan raised an eyebrow. ‘Then why are you here?’

‘Can’t a guy get a drink with a friend?’

‘So we’re still friends?’ He said it lightly. His hands were tight around his glass.

‘I wanted to see if you were okay.’

Dan’s mouth twisted up at the corner. ‘And are you satisfied?’

Casey looked at him carefully. Low light and shadows, Dan Rydell and his interesting face, his complicated lips. Not really a TV face. Someone had said that to Casey once, in the early days, _not really a TV face. Now, you, on the other hand—_

‘I don’t know. Are you still sick?

‘What do you mean?’

‘Last week. You were sick.’ 

‘I had a cold.’

‘You had a throat infection.’

‘Whatever.’

‘You had a fever.’

‘I don’t think I did.’

‘I was at your apartment and you kept calling me Julie.’

‘Maybe you remind me of Julie.’

‘Maybe you’ve still got a fever.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Because. I mean. That might explain what happened today.’

Dan raised his glass and emptied it, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he put it back on the table. ‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘What is this? I need a beer.’

‘I think a beer is called an Amber Light,’ Casey said. Danny looked so sad, for a moment, with his red stained lips and his clean shirt from today’s show, unbuttoned at the collar, that Casey reached across and touched his knee. ‘I’ll get you one.’ 

At the bar, he tried to remember watching Dan do the interview. He’d been standing just off-camera. Ninety-nine percent of the time they were on screen at the same time, so Casey always liked to watch Dan, when he could.

The lights had been hot—they were always hot. He couldn’t remember if Dan’s hands were shaking as he shuffled his script. He might have been delirious. He might. It was possible. It would help. 

Dan accepted his beer, looked grateful. ‘You know this place is like two blocks from my apartment,’ he said.

‘I know.’

‘Is that how you found me?’

‘Seriously, Danny. I have an instinct for these things. I can always find you.’

Dan blinked. ‘That sounds kind of sinister.’

‘Be that as it may.’

The music was some old blues guy, Blind Somebody—Dan would know, but Casey didn’t feel like asking. He sat down again and listened for a while. A voice from a very long time ago. 

The silence between them was worn and comfortable, none of the splintering hurt of Dan’s last on-air meltdown. Casey hadn’t been the target this time. In his more generous moments, Casey knew that he hadn’t been the target last time.

Dan sank further into the couch, his long legs stretched out beneath the table. His head fell backwards and he stared upwards at some invisible point of despair above him. He was as pale as Casey’s drink.

‘Do you feel okay?’ Casey said, trying not to sound like anybody’s mother, trying to find a pitch and tone that conveyed only manly concern. 

There was a long pause before Dan answered. ‘Are you supposed to take me back to the studio or something?’

‘No.’

In a smaller voice, Dan said ‘Are they going to fire me?’

‘No,’ said Casey. ‘I don’t think so.’ He finished the rest of his too-sweet alcoholic milk-drink and immediately wanted another. ‘They want you to be there by eleven tomorrow. There’s going to be a meeting.’

‘Network people going to be there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were they there this afternoon?’

‘Yeah. Conner Merrick turned up. And Lindsay Sheridan.’

‘I like Lindsay.’

‘I know. Me too.’

‘I like Conner too.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You know what sucks about Quo Vadimus?’

‘All their people are decent and intelligent and put a high premium on artistic integrity?’

‘Yeah. It really makes it difficult to hate them.’

‘So you’re directing your aggression towards sports stars instead?’ Casey said. It was meant to be a joke.

Dan made a soft, miserable sound in his throat, and put a hand over his eyes. ‘Yeah. I guess so.’ 

Earlier, Conner Merrick from the network had stood in Isaac’s office and said ‘Hey, I find Dan Rydell’s occasional bouts of crazy as endearing as anybody, but isn’t Casey supposed to rein him in when he’s going to do this? Wasn’t Casey supposed to be doing this interview?’

They all fell back on _crazy_ these days when Dan acted out, like that made it all a joke and okay, and like that was enough, like _occasionally crazy_ was as good a description as they needed.

Casey kept wanting to say: _he’s so much more complicated than that._

‘Listen,’ Casey said. ‘I don’t think it’s that bad. I’m not sure you’ll even get suspended.’

‘I got suspended last time,’ Dan said, and Casey thought about how he didn’t even like Draft Day anymore, whatever year it was. Dan had completely ruined it for him. ‘And you said I was lucky.’

‘You were lucky. But this wasn’t as bad as that.’

‘You don’t think so?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

_Because it wasn’t us. Because we didn’t say awful things to each other and then not talk for a week._ ‘Because Mark Sorenson kind of deserved it.’

Dan rolled his head sideways, looked carefully at Casey. His pupils were black and dilated and Casey wondered how much he’d drunk already. ‘Why are you here, Casey?’ 

Casey looked at his empty glass. It had taken him nearly two hours to track Dan down, and it was cold outside, a hard, clear December night. Nine calls to Dan’s cell which all went straight to voicemail. Four messages. Casey hated when people turned their phones off. It was petulant and stupid. 

‘I was thinking,’ Casey said. ‘While I was wondering aimlessly around Dan Rydell’s favourite Manhattan locations. I was thinking about Draft Day, and all that—’ he broke off, waved a hand around vaguely. ‘Stuff.’

Dan looked back at the ceiling.

‘I was thinking about that broadcast and how I was so mad, that time. I mean, I still am, sometimes, if I think about it.’

Dan opened his mouth and Casey knew he was going to apologise so he waved it away, pre-emptively. ‘But I always felt like, after that show, before you got hauled in front of Isaac and Dana and the network and before I stopped talking to you – I should have asked if you were okay. Because you obviously weren’t. And I knew that. But I was too angry to make myself ask.’

‘I didn’t deserve sympathy, Casey.’

‘Not sympathy. Just – someone should have made sure you were okay.’

The music had stopped playing while Casey was talking, and Casey watched the lone bartender shuffle through some CDs behind the bar, turn to load another one. 

‘So that’s what you’re doing now?’ Dan said quietly.

‘Yeah. Also I’m not mad at you now. So it’s easier.’

‘I bet.’

‘You didn’t make me look like an idiot this time.’

‘No.’

‘Now, you talk to Mark Sorenson, I think he’s pretty mad at you.’

‘Well, I guess that’s easier to live with.’

‘After that show, on Draft Day. You looked like you were gonna be sick.’

‘Yeah. I was.’

‘I figured.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You looked the same today.’

‘Yeah. Well.’

‘You shouldn’t have left. You should have stuck around. We all thought you were just cooling off or something. When Dana realised you were _gone_ —’

‘Casey. Honestly. I thought Sorenson was going to kill me.’

‘Danny—’

‘He’s a big guy, Casey.’

‘You shouldn’t have left. It looked bad.’

‘He’s a professional athlete. A huge professional athlete.’

‘And you’re a professional sports anchor.’

‘Not a very professional one, apparently.’

‘No.’

Dan flinched. ‘You think everyone’s going to link this up with what happened on Draft Day? Make it seem like I’ve got a habit of going off-script, like I’m unreliable? Or, whatever. Unstable.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I can’t get a reputation like that in this business. You know that. It’s toxic.’

‘Honestly, Danny? You kind of already have that reputation. And you seem to be doing okay.’ 

‘I don’t want that reputation.’ Dan sat forward, put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. ‘I don’t want to be that guy.’ His voice was muffled by his hands.

Casey reached out, touched his knee again. ‘It’s not really like you deserve it. Some things just stick to people. I did crappy shows for about a month during my divorce—’

‘I remember.’

‘—and no one ever mentions it anymore. On the whole, on our total number of shows, you’ve probably been more reliable than me.’

‘Maybe,’ Dan said, quietly, lifting his head. ‘Doesn’t matter. You’re their guy. You’re their sports guy. You’re the name. They want to protect you. Me, I turn up at network events and people keep looking at me like I’m someone’s kid brother. You don’t have as much to prove. I don’t have anyone protecting me.’

‘I don’t think that’s true.’

‘It is.’

‘I don’t think it is. I think it used to be true. I don’t think it is anymore.’

‘I think you’re wrong.’

If someone would give him the chance, Casey thought, he would go on air and tell everybody watching that Dan was the only person whose opinion mattered, that everybody should listen to Dan, that Dan should be paid more, that Dan was a much, much better person than Casey was, and had worked harder to get here, and was much more interesting. 

Casey wondered if Dan would do the same, and knew immediately that he would, that he actually would, he wouldn’t just suggest it as a gesture. He would do it, and he would believe it. Dan was that kind of guy. 

Casey wouldn’t really do it. 

‘Danny,’ said Casey, and got stuck on his name for a while. ‘Danny. Danny. You’re more popular than me. You get more fanmail than me. You get more girls than me. I don’t get why—’

‘Because girls aren’t the demographic the network wants, and you know it. They want eighteen to forty-nine males. Straight males. That’s where they think the money is. And they want a serious sports show, they want someone who’s a respected name in sports. They don’t want a boyband. They don’t want the cast of—whatever.’

‘Whatever?’

‘Something with a lot of attractive people in it.’

‘You are a respected name in sports.’

Dan offered a hard smile. ‘Even if I was this morning, I’m not anymore.’

Casey flinched, heard Dan’s voice tape-loop in his head. _And were you born this much of a jackass, or is that something you’ve had to work at?_ ‘It wasn’t that bad.’

‘I called him a homophobe and an antisemite. On our lunchtime special live interview.’

‘He is a homophobe and an antisemite.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with basketball.’

‘Technically you didn’t call him anything, apart from a jackass. You asked him to clarify some remarks he’d made—’ _that’s interesting, because the way the quote reads to me, and probably a couple of million impressionable kids, is that you condone violent displays of homophobia, antisemitism, and probably a few more of your standard all-American prejudices—_ ‘which was a completely valid journalistic interview technique.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with basketball.’

‘It’s got a lot to do with basketball, and you know it.’

‘He’s going to sue us.’

‘He can’t sue us.’ 

‘We misled him. He was told he was coming on to talk about basketball. He was told he was coming on to talk about basketball with you.’

‘My hockey thing ran over, I didn’t have any time to prep, you had to stand in. Things happen.’

‘You wouldn’t have called him a jackass.’

_I wouldn’t have the guts_ , thought Casey, at exactly the same moment as he thought _I’m not crazy_. He didn’t say anything.

‘You should have done the interview. They should never have let me near it. What we need here is a time-machine.’ 

‘Look,’ said Casey. ‘It was about damn time someone asked him to clarify some of the things he’s said. 

‘Casey. Those remarks are a year and a half old.’

‘But no one ever called him up on it.’

‘Yes they did, but nobody cared, because he averaged thirty points a game that season. Look, Dana told me to leave it. Dana told me to talk about basketball. I screwed up.’

‘He deserved it.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. Those remarks are a year and a half old. You can’t endlessly focus on people’s past fuck-ups. He deserves a second chance.’

‘If he does then you sure as hell do.’

‘Yeah.’ Dan managed half a smile, for the first time in the evening. ‘But I think I’ve already had my second chance, don’t you?’ 

Casey sighed, and listened to the music again. It had changed from blues to something else. ‘Is this jazz?’ he said.

‘Casey, Casey.’ There was a flicker of warmth behind Dan’s eyes. ‘Casey, you are so uncool.’

‘What? It isn’t jazz?’

‘Obviously it’s jazz,’ said Dan. ‘It’s Miles Davis. It’s jazz taken to the level of the sublime.’

‘Well, yeah.’ Casey said. ‘That’s what I thought. I just, you know. I prefer his later work.’

They shared a grin.

‘How do you always find these places?’ said Casey. ‘If it wasn’t for you I don’t think I’d have been in more than two different bars in the last five years.’

‘That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,’ said Dan. ‘You’re rich and you live in Manhattan.’

‘I don’t know how to find these places.’

‘I just see them. I walk past them. I see them when they’re opening and they have all these signs and drink promotions and they’re trying really hard to be successful, and I want to help them. I feel like it’s my duty.’

‘As a successful person?’

‘Yeah. Well.’ A bleakness fell back around him. ‘Maybe not anymore.’

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ said Casey. Dan looked doubtful, and Casey looked upwards, for inspiration. ‘ I mean, that clip is gonna rerun on every other network. People are going to be talking about us. About you.’ A sudden, irrational stab of jealousy. ‘Our ratings are going to spike for a while, people are going to write op-eds praising your integrity. I think this could be really good for us. I think the network’s going to realise that this could work in our favor.’

‘Well, gee, Casey, I almost wish I’d done it intentionally.’ Dan folded his arms across his chest, tucked his hands away. Casey felt like he was saying something important to him that he couldn’t quite understand.

‘There must have been some level of intention,’ he said. ‘You were pretty eloquent.’

‘I’m always pretty eloquent,’ Dan said.

‘I know,’ Casey said. ‘Last week you gave me a nine minute lecture on the theme of failure in the music of Tom Waits, and you had a fever pushing 103.’

‘Seriously?’

‘It was very illuminating.’ 

Dan grinned, but it fell away too quickly. ‘Casey, I swear. Sometimes I do things and afterwards I can’t remember doing them. I only know about it because people tell me. Or I see it on the monitors.’

Casey didn’t know what to do with that information. ‘You want to go home?’ he said. ‘I’ll sleep in your spare room. We can drink some real drinks, find a bad movie to watch. I’ll come with you to the meeting tomorrow. Be your corner man. I want to tell them about your fever.’

‘Sure,’ said Dan. ‘Maybe we can get my mom involved on speakerphone, too. She’s usually on my side.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘Or we could just fly her in.’

‘I think you might need some help.’

‘I don’t want to drag you down with me, Casey.’

‘Hey.’ Casey held up his hands. ‘I’m their serious sports guy, remember? They protect me. I’m safe.’

‘Right. I forgot for a moment.’

‘You know what else? As long as I’m safe, you’re safe. Alright?’

Dan looked at the back of his hands. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Fine. Okay. Let’s go home.’

As they were putting their coats on, Dan said, ‘You know, when I started the interview, I wasn’t thinking about the quote. I wasn’t thinking about homophobia or any of that.’

Casey waited. Behind them, the bartender was starting to stack glasses. Probably waiting for them to leave so he could go home. 

‘I was thinking, why doesn’t he like me? You know? Mark Sorenson. He likes you. Every time we’ve met him, you can tell he likes you. And he doesn’t like me. He never has. And he wasn’t going to give me a good interview because he just doesn’t like me. He likes you.’ 

‘So what? Danny, who cares?’

‘It’s important. If you’re gonna be a sports journalist, sports people need to like you.’

‘They do like you. Everyone likes you, Danny. Nearly everyone. A lot of people.’

‘Yeah. Okay. I just—that’s what I was thinking. I was thinking about why he doesn’t like me. I was thinking what I should do to get him to like me.’

Dan opened the door and stepped outside. Casey followed, feeling suddenly, hopelessly sad. The cold made him catch his breath. The door swung shut behind them. ‘If getting him to like you was your aim, I think you might have—’

‘I know.’ Dan held up a hand. ‘I know. Believe me.’ 

‘I like you.’ 

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re one of my top two favourite people.’ 

Dan dug his hands into his pockets. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You’re one of my top two favourite sports anchors.’

‘Is the other one you?’ Casey said.

‘Yes,’ said Dan. He nodded his head back towards the bar. ‘You think it’s gonna make it?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘This bar.’

‘Do I think it’s gonna make it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘No.’

‘How come?’

‘It’s empty. We were the only ones in there.’

‘I guess. I kind of like it.’

‘I know. But I don’t think it’s going to make it.’

Dan hunched down into his coat, looked up the street like he didn’t know which direction to walk.

‘Don’t blame yourself,’ said Casey. ‘I’m sure you bought as many overpriced drinks as you could.’

‘I know. It’s just. When places open in New York and then they close—I just. I think it’s like the saddest thing in the world. I can’t stand it, Casey. All that hope. It makes me want to cry.’

‘Please don’t.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘I know. Please don’t cry. I can’t deal with it. I’m unequipped.’

‘I think you’d do alright.’

‘Let’s not test it.’

‘Okay.’

In the streetlight Dan looked exhausted. Their breath was clouding in front of their faces. 

‘Home?’ said Casey.

‘Yeah,’ said Dan. ‘Please.’

Last week, Casey held the back of his hand against Dan’s forehead, felt dry heat. Casey was sitting on the side of the bed, Dan half-covered by a tangle of sheets. In the kitchen, Tom Waits was playing. Dan looked up at Casey, blank, bright eyes and said, ‘I can’t see any of the sky. Can you see the sky?’ 

‘Not right now,’ Casey said, and called Lisa, who used to like reading medical dictionaries over breakfast, and always knew what was wrong with Charlie before doctors did. 

‘God, Casey,’ she said. ‘I don’t know. Maybe he has strep throat.’ 

‘You think I should take him to a doctor?’

‘I think you should take him to a bar and find him a girlfriend so that you don’t have to look after him,’ Lisa said, flippantly enough that it didn’t hurt.

‘Seriously, Lise.’

‘Seriously, Case. I have no idea.’

‘I’m going to take him to a doctor.’

‘God,’ she said again. She sounded confused. ‘You’d do anything for him, wouldn’t you?’

‘No,’ said Casey. ‘Not anything.’

Then Dan sat up, rolled his delirious gaze around the room. He grabbed at Casey’s shirt with a shaky hand, looked like he was trying to focus. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Can somebody help me?’

In the kitchen, Tom Waits stopped singing. The stereo whirred and went silent. Lisa sighed and the phone crackled with static. ‘I don’t know how,’ said Casey. ‘I’m trying.’


End file.
